The Heatwave, The Police, and A Song About Pasta

You may have heard about the heatwave that hit the UK last week. I know, it sounds like a joke. And really, the Australians are well within their rights to poke fun at the POMs for complaining about the 34°C weather. Still, let the following cautionary tale be a warning to you that heatwaves are no joking matter… or you can just laugh along at my devastating embarrassment. That works too.

The problem with heat in big cities is that it’s near impossible to get any kind of breeze. The air just sits thick and polluted and heavy as the people turn into soggy bits of sponge.

This was the state we were in last weekend when we arrived at the restaurant for a friend’s birthday meal/ drinks. Just sticky messes. Attractive.

And then we ate. And then we drank. And then we drank some more. At first we were downing water, but by the end I guess we kinda forgot? Yea. But we were feeling fine and decided to head off to the local pub after. We were having a great time.

It was sometime halfway through my first pint that I suddenly felt weird. Like bad. Like, I need to go home now thank you and good night. So my friend walked me through the heat of Highbury and Islington to the station, where I convinced her I could head off on my own. I was alright. I just needed to go home.

I sat down at the platform and within minutes I was out. Gone. I remember someone asking me to unlock my phone and getting me to tell them the names of the people I live with. That’s about it.

… Yup. I was “that” girl.

An hour later, the friend who had walked me to the station was back, a small posse of them heading home. Apparently there was a group of people, including police, huddled at the entrance to the Overground, someone passed out in the middle. Imagine her surprise when she realized it was this one! There was even an ambulance on the way… Yikes!

And all I remember is lying there getting more and more annoyed that people kept pestering me as I was trying to rest. JUST LET ME SLEEP A BIT THEN I’LL GO HOME!

Everything was a mess. My friend was crying. I was patting her on the arm in an attempt to be comforting while refusing to open my eyes. And then a miracle saved the day.

And by miracle I mean P.A.S.T.A by Tom Rosenthal:

Apparently as soon as the bearded carpenter of the group put this song on, my friend stopped crying and I sat up, fresh as a daisy and ready to head off.

The ambulance was canceled and I ambled off to sleep away the lingering sickness at the birthday boy’s house (what a great invitee I am!).

It wasn’t until the next morning that I found out the police had called my parents (ummm, excuse me what??!!) and my friend noticed this message on her phone:

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So next time you slag off an “English Heatwave” remember, there are stupid people in this world (me), who will drink during that heatwave (also me), and as a grown-ass adult have the police rat them out to their parents. (Thankfully, since my parents have a lot of kids, this was neither the first nor the worst call they’ve got from the cops. Really, they’ve brought it on themselves).

Oh yea, and then the other night I went out with colleagues to celebrate my surprise promotion (woop woop!) and somehow the night devolved into a game of Truth or Dare. My “Truth” question was — where’s the worst place you’ve been sick?

My boss was there.

 

Thank you Emily Rose for inspiring me to share this horrific tale of woe. There are some others knocking about here:

Big City Dating… or The Terrors of Tinder
Apology Sandwiches, Zombie Interviews, and a Grown-Ass Job
A Cat, A Princess, And an Ill-Fitting Dress
Foxes, Aussies, and Making Pals

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